


Appetite

by banhmi



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Climbing Class if you squint, Gen, Mild Gore, cannibalism mention, wendigo recovery au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5181407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banhmi/pseuds/banhmi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh has a hard time readjusting after his rescue from the mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It always begins with water. The echo of droplets popping over stone, plunging into murky pools. He sees himself down there again, in the maw of the mine. He remembers the sting of the cut on his neck, the rhythm of pain that drummed over him, steady as a heartbeat (not his heartbeat). He remembers the clouds hanging in his mind and the voices and his sisters, and Hannah, _Hannah_ , when did she get so tall? He remembers her claws in his shirt as she dragged him off, his weightlessness when she tossed him against a wall. He remembers her skittering away, and he remembers the darkness seeping into him, his eyes growing heavy as he slumped over and breathed hard into the earth.

And, later—

               —the hunger.

It hits him now as a burning arrow, the heat plunging into his gut and radiating in tines across the rest of his body, searing every nerve. A noise escapes him, his lips crumple as his teeth grind. Somehow it reaches even deeper, clawing beyond his flesh and working its way down. Down, down, down, and the sound of droplets returns. He curls up, wraps his hands around his middle, and squeezes. Whispering fills the air. It takes him time to realize that it spills from his own mouth. Something like _no, no,_ no _, this isn’t real, this isn’t_ real. Something like that. Dread seizes him by the throat as the words dissipate into the air.

His stomach continues to squirm. When he finds it in himself to blink his vision crosses, each movement becomes slow and dreamy and staggered and splashes him with a bout of nausea. A faulty film reel. Faulty, faulty, faulty. He holds himself tighter, fingertips pushing hard into rib, lungs aching.

And it remains.

It remains, and the walls of his stomach erode, leaving behind a chasm as monstrous as the mine itself. He grits his teeth as it percolates through him, each drip sending out a pang that leaves him breathless. _I can stop this,_ he thinks, _I’m in control, I can stop this, I can_ stop _this_.

It only takes looking forward to render him silent.  

Chris hasn’t stirred. The nape of his neck peeks out above the hood of his rumpled sweater.

Another pang hits him.

He sidles forward.

Presses his forehead and then his nose to Chris’ back.

It doesn’t smell like Chris. It smells like—

“Meat,” he breathes.

Meat.

Saliva fills his mouth. His tongue runs over his teeth—they are dull, but he will make due.

He looks at the skin again, eyes widening.

This morning he had put a kiss there. He can’t recall why they were laughing. Something about…something about—meat? Something about—fuck. _Fuck_.

He shrinks backward. Sits up. _I can stop this_. _I can stop this, I can stop this_. Back to square one.

His arms curl around himself again as if to cage his thoughts. It never works anymore, but he needs the regularity.

The TV screen across the room manages to capture his attention for a few minutes, if only because he can monitor himself under the moonlight streaming in through the window. His eyes glisten and he notes the lines of sweat trailing down his temples, how on the left side they disappear into the gnarls of his scar. He tries to slip into the silence, letting out measured breaths and tapping his fingers against his arms. But eyes are meant to wander. There’s more than quiet in the screen. Chris is there, too. Right beside him. He licks his lips.  

Just as strongly as he recalls the wonderful bitterness from the mountain, he also recalls the grit, the sourness from the stagnant water. Waxy skin tinged with frostbite.

He wants to know how the meat will taste when it’s warm and clean, when the blood will run thick across his tongue. Closing his eyes, he imagines the flesh of Chris’ neck yielding, splitting open beneath his teeth like an overstuffed parcel and revealing smooth lines of muscle. Cartilage snapping, arteries folding into his mouth. Metallic bitterness, slick offal. He never had a chance to taste marrow. His heartbeat quickens. The scar across his cheek pulsates in time with his stomach. _You need to eat, you need to eat, you need to eat_. Acid rolls along the pit of his belly and nips into the lining. The contents of his head float just under the roof of his skull, coaxing him to the edge of unconsciousness before lucidity jerks him back into place, and the feeling of being pulled to and fro like a lever persists until he agrees to think.

He thinks that if he’s fast, he can do it. Chris has always had a surprisingly effective right hook, though it rarely sees any action. He knows he won’t see it here, especially not if he's fast. If he can get his teeth into a carotid and get it open, he will manage. If he can force the heel of his hand into Chris’ temple where the bone is thinner, there will be a mess; there won’t be any noise. And then he can get rid of this _fucking_ —

Chris’ shoulder shifts.

He freezes. Freezes? Has he been moving? _Fuck,_ fuck—

Chris mumbles something unintelligible, settles down.

Back to square one.

No, no. New plan.

He can’t stay here.

The hardwood sticks to his feet as he staggers downstairs into the kitchen. Steadying himself against the stools at the island and then the island itself, he eventually ends with his hands grasping the refrigerator. His mom brought something home earlier today. He had smelled it from upstairs.  

 _You need to eat_.

There it is.

He grabs the mound of wax paper and sinks to the floor, skin jittering as his fingers work at the string holding the thing closed. Frustration jolts through him, he substitutes his hands for his teeth. As soon as the string succumbs, he throws his hands back into the mix and the paper lies in shreds, an uneven halo around the thick cut of—of—he doesn’t know what it is but the smell intoxicates him and its redness glows like a jewel. He lifts it to his lips, quivering. Cold again. Not quite the same scent. No blood.  

He stares at the bottom of the staircase, slides his eyes upward. Brings them back to the cut in his hands.

If he’s fast, he can—

No. _No_.

 _You need to eat_.

His teeth sink into the meat and it’s near euphoria. It melts over his tongue in layers, tender and malleable and sweet. Something between a low snarl and a sigh leaves his throat. Nostalgia comes over him; if his teeth were sharper, more plentiful, paired with claws, he could split the sinews more easily. He centers on this idea, rather than the one insisting he go back upstairs for something much more tantalizing. The meat slides against his molars, he hooks a canine into it. His jaw flexes and he tears off a morsel, holding it in his mouth to warm it and pass it over his tongue before he swallows. Despite his fingers numbing as they press into the chilled softness of the slab, tips whitening, he strengthens his hold; it stings, but he can’t let go. He has to stay. And he has to eat. He doesn’t want to think of losing focus and going anywhere else.    

Rinse and repeat. The kitchen fills with the breathy sounds of his feasting, the hum of the fridge. Senses dulled, he fails to notice the footfall on the stairs, the shape filling the doorway behind him. On the mountain he was not so careless, on the mountain he—

“J…Josh?”

Silence blankets the room like a heavy snowfall. A piece of meat sits at the back of his mouth. Or is it his heart there, trembling?  

“Josh.”

He peers over his shoulder. Swallows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a bonus chapter as thanks for the amazing tags + messages I've received for the first part. I'm so overwhelmed and really grateful!!

They stare at each other until he can no longer endure the concern pooling in Chris’ eyes, drowning out the exhaustion. It starts out as soft until it becomes _mocking_ and _patronizing_ and he bites his tongue. Looks to his hands. Drops the meat.

Let’s not say anything you’ll regret, Josh. You’ve done that enough times, haven’t you?

His hands look sickly under the fridge light, pallid and gaunt; a pinkish film coats his fingers. Nothing compared to handling the pigs, he thinks, and he thinks then of a line of them closing around him like a curtain, ready to burst. It doesn’t seem that Chris wants an intermission, though, what with the way he keeps his mouth in a firm line. The pigs move away.

He readies himself for speech. His teeth want to grind and tear and chew and he does, too, and his voice feels lodged somewhere he can’t reach. But he figures he should say something.

Wiping at his mouth, he only succeeds in smearing the red around and not-so-discreetly licking his fingers. He grins. Regrets the fact that he has a toothy grin.

Chris flinches.

He stops.

Keep going.  

“The show’s over,” he says, low and wavering. “You missed the midnight premiere. Tickets sold out _weeks ago_.”

Chris seems more interested in the meat.  

Something flickers in his throat and with one hand he pulls the meat closer. The skin over his back bristles and it’s almost exciting.

Almost.

His heartbeat ladders into his throat.

Chris slowly lifts his hands. “Don’t worry—I, uh. I’m not hungry.”

He assumes he looks awful with his wide eyes and the cool light from the fridge illuminating the back of his head, like a creature eyeing its prey with the moon lying sleek behind.  

“ _I am_ ,” he says, finally, and to what is he admitting?

Chris tends to his bottom lip with his teeth.

Pause.

“Why are you _here_ ,” he grits out, hoping for acidity.     

“Josh—”

“Leave. Me. Alone.” 

Chris shakes his head, crossing his arms loosely. “I’m not going to leave you alone, Josh.”

Fucking. Fuck. He feels it building again and he clenches his hands and presses his nails into his palms and the tendons over his knuckles stand out and he’s breathing through his teeth. “I don’t _need_ you right now, Chris. Just _leave_. Okay? Leave me alone, let me fuck myself up a little, and come morning—I’ll be good as new. Okay? Sound good?”

Chris doesn’t move.

Maybe a pained look will work. “ _Chris_.”

“I’m—I’m not going anywhere unless you come with me.”

His expression drops.

“Seriously. I’m not.”

He opens his hands on his thighs and watches as they stain his sweats. “…Yeah?”

“Yeah. Geez. Of course.”

The fridge clicks off, and the quiet becomes a palpable, beating thing in his ears. It makes it harder to ignore the mantra threading again through the folds of his brain like a worm, and he can _feel_ it in there. Its hearts, its throbbing, its slow crawl that leaves behind a residue that drips and drips and—

_You need to eat, you need to eat, you need to eat._

He doesn’t know how many minutes have passed when he checks the doorway and finds that Chris is still there. He does know that Chris’ eyes, larger now and brighter, shred his insides. Did he say something? Did he do something? Racking his brain yields nothing.

It took everything.

A tremor ripples through his stomach.

It took everything and made a home of him an empty home and he is fucking _starving_ and—

“Hey, you’re okay,” Chris says. The way he says it sounds like this is the twentieth iteration.

“I-I think,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, chest simmering as he starts to shudder, “I’m a little _less_ than okay.”

“I meant—”

“I know.”

That’s when the fidgeting starts. He watches as Chris rolls his hoodie’s aglets between his fingertips, coils the drawstrings around his fingers. It makes him warm and he wants to take those fingers into his mouth and snap the bones in half.

No more fidgeting. No more Chris.

No more hunger.

Sweetness.

Relief.

“You still with me?”

A delayed ‘yeah’ finds its way out of him. Or, he assumes it’s from him. He didn’t think he’d moved his mouth. Maybe.

“I’m…going to make my way over there, okay?”

“…What?”

“I’ll go slow.”

He means to sound playful when he says, “You never know what’s good for you, Cochise.” Instead, there’s an edge to his words as he fumbles with them.

Shrug. “Never have. Never will.”

“Listen, this isn’t—”

He flinches when Chris steps towards him, even though the motion is languid and easy to read.

They wait.

Then: movement again.

Chris settles on the tiles nearby and leans against the kitchen island, his head thumping against the wood. “I’ll keep you company,” he says. “And if you try anything on me…” He makes a fist of his right hand and pats his bicep.

“You been practicing?” he asks. Chris chuckles, and he would have joined in if not for the fact that Chris is too close, much too close, close enough now that his scent wafts over him and he feels vacant all over again, as if everything he’d eaten had been wrung out of his body. He hopes Chris doesn’t notice him grimacing and leaning forward.

“Ah—”

He noticed.

“I’m fine. I’m f-fine. I’m fine.” Doubled over, though, he sounds so, so small. He swipes a hand across his forehead and frowns at the sliminess. He looks at Chris. Chris looks at him. Still that knot in his brow. Not as derisive. (Not that it ever was). Breathe. “You…really wanna do this?”

“I didn’t have to come down here, you know. I was getting some quality beauty sleep.”

Though he can only produce a wan smile, he receives a full one in return. “You definitely need it,” he mumbles, imagining himself shoving Chris over.

“Thanks. Glad we can agree on _something_.” Chris rolls his eyes. “Really, though. To the first thing.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Well, I’m still. _Really_ …fucking hungry.”

“I guess you should finish up then.”

“I need to.”

Pause. Fidgeting again.

Long exhale, and then: “Listen. Don’t say anything, don’t _do_ anything. Don’t move. Got it?”   

A nod. “Got it.”  

_Or I’ll fucking kill you_.

Not just that.

_I’ll fucking eat you alive and I’ll enjoy it_.

Chris lowers his eyes. Nothing more. 

A pause. The kitchen returns to normalcy as the fridge rumbles back to life, flock of birds regathering.

He presses the leftover meat into his mouth, eating slower than before. He savours it. The muscle stretches before it snaps against his palate, while the fat marbling the cut offers pockets of softness. In his daze he doesn’t note the bone until it knocks against his teeth. It refuses to yield until he aligns it at _just_ the right angle, so that his molars can— _crack_. A few shards speckle his thighs. A few globules of marrow. It’s earthy and deep and rich and stronger than the meat; he runs his tongue a few times over the exposed groove before he excitedly opens a new one, and it’s all too easy to ignore the ache developing in his lower jaw as he cleans out the innards. Maybe not the innards he wants—he goes to flick his eyes to—no, no, there’s no one sitting there, your eyes belong here.

Maybe not the innards he wants, but they hit a note of satisfaction in his gut. He will take that, if anything.

He takes it.

And just like that, the meat disappears.

He licks his lips, then his fingers. The shredded wax paper before him bears only a wet shadow of its contents. His shoulders rise and fall with his breath. He hears shuffling near him, can’t register to it any importance.

Like snowmelt, the hunger cascades down the crags of his stomach, meandering towards a distant lake. It takes with it the ache and the emptiness and the words (just a vague whisper now), and in the absence of water he begins to rebuild.

Sated and warm, his body relaxes; the hard curve in his spine melts, he falls forward onto his hands. A sigh pours out of him and so does the tightness in his chest. Though his mouth is heavy still with the tang of meat, he feels no distinct pleasure in holding it there. He scrapes his teeth against his tongue and swallows hard. His fingertips glow with numbness and he pinches them together, twines them in the folds of his shirt against himself.

A soaked towel enters his line of sight. He follows its hem, its creases, moves past its source to a wrist and worn sleeve.

They gaze at each other before he accepts the offering—it’s heated, soft, clean—and scrubs at his face and hands. He might as well stay red, he thinks, his skin feeling new and raw. Chris tosses the towel before either of them can inspect the damage, making a small _whoosh_ noise.

“…You’re bad at that,” he says, slowly as Chris’ hand closes around his forearm. He wants to shake it away as he goes to stand, albeit they’re both upright by the time he decides and his feet are tingling.

“Bad at what?”

“How can you be friends with me and be bad at _sound effects_? …Unreal.”

“Listen, I’m a man of _many_ talents, some of which can’t even be perceived by mortals, so please _excuse me_ if I can’t perfectly mimic a basketball swoosh. I don’t have time for such trivial matters.”

It slips out of him before he can stop himself; at least this time he can throw in nonchalance. “You’ve got time for me.”

“You’re—” Chris glances away, speaks lower. “You’re not trivial.”

He knocks against Chris’ shoulder, laughing through his nose and moving out of the kitchen, trying to ignore the gaze pressing to the back of his neck.

A few exchanges pass between them as they trudge upstairs; things feel mostly normal, even when he knuckles the exhaustion out of one eye and grazes his scar, even when he touches the smears on his pants as he changes out of them.  

 

They end up lying side-by-side on the bed, staring at the ceiling with their fingers brushing against each other.  

“Hey,” Chris says.

He feels Chris’ little finger tapping his wrist.

“It won’t be like last time.”

He tilts his head over. Chris’ brow is furrowed.

“I won’t make the same mistake again. I’m here for you.” Now their eyes meet. “You know that, right?”

He musters a faint, “I know,” and a hand envelopes his own.  

“You have to be there, too.”  

The phrase feels foreign now, but he says, “…I know.”

He closes his eyes. The echo behind his ears sinks into the mattress, he sinks into his pillow. A shoulder bumps against him.

He sleeps for a long time. And it is quiet.


End file.
